


Calvary

by LinguisticJubilee



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Episode: s01e11 The Magical Place, LinguisticJubilee: Your source for inappropriate metaphors, M/M, References to ward/may, but it's mentioned about as much as melinda would mention it in daily conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguisticJubilee/pseuds/LinguisticJubilee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cavalry:  The army unit mounted on horseback, trained to move so quickly it can overwhelm the enemy and kick the shit out of them. </p>
<p>Calvary:  The hill where two condemned sinners slowly died while watching their savior get crucified by those he tried to save.</p>
<p>Uncomfortable with the comparison?  Yeah, so is Agent May.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calvary

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for The Magical Place. ~~(Is this the place to brag that I guessed it? Because I totally guessed it.)~~

Something is very wrong with Phil Coulson. Melinda May sees that immediately. She might not get out from behind her desk much anymore, but she’s not an idiot. He comes waltzing into her office, spouting crazy talk about running around the globe with a bunch of teenagers, and that’s all normal. The desperation behind his eyes, though, and the fact that he never once mentions Agent Barton, that’s worrying.

It reminds her of a hot August evening, years ago, before The Cavalry, before Bahrain, when they were just Melinda and Phil, two junior agents united by their frustration at their incompetent colleagues. Coulson had just received a phone call that his father had died, and the two of them had gotten fantastically drunk on the roof of the Miami SHIELD office. Coulson had stared out at the sunset, recounting stories of how his father had supported him, through the confused ramblings of a gay teenager to the Rangers and even in those last few years, as much as Phil would let him. “I feel like, with him gone, no one’s watching out for me,” he’d said, taking a swig from a bottle of whiskey. May’d snorted and knocked their knees together. “I’ll always watch your back,” she’d said. 

It occurs to May, sitting alone among her piles of paperwork, that she’s broken that promise. 

May dismantles herself from her desk and traverses the Hub to Hill’s office. She doesn’t bother knocking; she saved Maria’s life in Munich when the girl was barely more than an aggressive guppy.

Hill is standing behind her desk, and turns around when the door opens. She nods at May, not looking surprised. “I see he talked to you.”

May crosses her arms, the better to intimidate. “Something happened to Coulson. I want to know what it is.” 

Hill sighs. “He died, May. That changes people.” 

May shakes her head. “That’s not going to work on me. People change, but Coulson will always be Coulson.” 

“Agent Coulson was medically cleared—” 

“No.” May stares her down, throwing all her spine into the word she can never really tell Coulson. “Don’t play this game with me. You want me to drive Miss Daisy? You tell me why Coulson is putting around with the Scooby Gang when you and I both know his first priority would be dragging Barton’s sorry ass back from whatever dark corner he’s hiding in.” 

Hill looks at her for a long moment, then nods. “Coulson was conscious for roughly seven minutes after receiving a fatal chest wound,” she states, tone matter-of-fact. “That’s a long time, especially for someone as reflective as Coulson. In those seven minutes, Coulson concluded that it was for the best. His death would unite the Avengers in a way nothing else could. According to the Director, by the time Coulson lost consciousness, he had made his peace.” 

May raises her eyebrows. “Romanticism.” 

“In normal circumstances, yes,” Hill agrees, leaning on her desk. “However, while Coulson was dying, a miniscule amount of the spear’s energy was coursing through his body. We still don’t understand well how Loki’s technology works, but part of it is keyed into the brain’s thought processes. The energy took Coulson’s romanticism, if you will, and made it more...substantial.” 

May can’t help a tiny smirk, in spite of it all. “So Coulson’s own sense of martyrdom is what killed him?”

“No, blood loss and organ failure is what killed him. Martyrdom kept him dead.” Hill rubs a hand over her forehead. With every word, she looks less and less like the unflappable agent Fury trained her to be. “SHIELD’s medical team patched him up. It took a lot of effort, but we did it. And when we woke him, he remembered. His heart failed, and he died again. And again. The energy was fulfilling his last wish, killing him every damn time we saved him, Melinda. Every damn time.” Hill pauses and looks away. “ _‘Let me die.’_ He just kept repeating, _‘please let me die.’’_ ” She sighs. “Eventually, one of the doctors figured it out. We wiped his memory of everything immediately after the stabbing, gave him false memories to account for the last eight months, and sent him on his way. He can’t ever remember what happened on the Helicarrier, how he felt, or the energy will destroy him.” 

May pinches her eyes. Magic, that’s the word Hill is refusing to say. Magic. The story sounds ridiculous, except for all the ways it’s not. The selfless pigheadedness, that noble recklessness, it’s so Coulson. “So that’s why we have this job on the Bus. To keep him away from the Avengers.” 

Hill nods, looking exhausted. “We think even seeing them will trigger the killswitch.” 

So that means. “Do Barton and Romanov even know he’s alive?”

Hill breathes a laugh. “Do you think they could stay away from him if they did?” 

Well, shit. “There’s no way this can end well, you know that, right?”

“Report for duty at 0800 tomorrow.”

***

It’s just as terrible as May feared, and at the same time, better than she could have imagined. Skye needs to shut up and listen, and FitzSimmons need to grow a healthy respect for the scary, but the team knits together well. And if she engages in certain activities during her off-hours, that’s nobody’s business. Even Coulson figuring out half the story doesn't ruin them, and she begins to believe they can get out of this without any of the puppies shooting themselves in the foot. 

Which is, of course, when everything goes to shit. 

They’re tracking a series of mysterious disappearances in a small Missouri town. May’s assignment is to stalk the local biker bar, pretending to be a drifter. She’s nursing a Bud on a stool near the television when she feels a presence behind her. “Melinda May, in the field?” A quiet voice jokes behind her. “Bestill my heart.” 

_Shit._ She pulls the comm out of her ear and throws it into her beer, making it splash as it sinks to the bottom. “Barton,” she hisses, turning around. “You need to leave. I’ll find you later.” 

He’s there, smirking like hell, circles under his eyes but still looking a damn sight better than he did when May spotted him sneaking out of HQ all those months ago. He straightens at her words. “Leave? Like hell,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Why are you running an op in my town?” 

_My town?_ It doesn’t matter. “Listen, Barton,” she says, pushing herself off the stool and into his space. “If that Loki bastard left you any tiny piece of your soul, you will walk out of this bar right now, do you understand me?” 

His brows knit together. Clint never was good at hiding his hurt. “What—?” 

“Oh my god, is that _Hawkeye?_ ” Simmons squeals from the doorway. It’s too late. Fitz is right behind her, poking his head in like stepping fully into the bar is too much commitment.

Barton turns around. “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong guy.” His tone is apologetic, and he puts his hands up. Their party is beginning to attract attention from the other patrons.

FitzSimmons burst the whole way in, regardless. Simmons manages to whisper and shriek at the same time. “It _is_ you, oh my god. Are you here to coordinate with us? Did SHIELD send you?” 

Barton turns back to May. “Get your people out of here, Melinda, and call off your op. Civilians are staring.” 

Fitz looks confused. “Agent May’s not running the op. Are you really from SHIELD?” 

This is rapidly getting out of control. May raises her voice. “We all need to _clear out_ , now.” 

Barton groans quietly. “Who’s even in charge of you people?”

“Hi, Clint,” a weak voice — _Coulson’s voice_ — says from the doorway. 

All four of them freeze, because they’ve all been trained to listen to that voice above anything, above gunfire and screaming and the sound a building makes as it collapses to the ground. May can hear a quiet gasp from Barton, but she’s not looking at him, already training her gaze on the doorway. Coulson’s there, white as a sheet, more emotions on his face than May’s seen in years. Skye’s along with him, a faithful step behind like always, but based on Coulson’s face they’ve all disappeared except for him and Barton.

At May’s side, Barton finds his voice again. “Always...always liked to make an entrance, didn’t you, boss?”

This must be hell for him, too, but May can’t see anything but the way Coulson’s face constricts at the words. His breaths come in more rapidly and his face gets even more pale, if that’s possible. “Clint?” He whispers. 

Then Phil falls to the floor, eyes rolling back in his head. 

May springs into action. “Get him on the Bus. We have basic emergency medical supplies onboard. We need to get him to the Hub as soon as possible.” 

And say what you will about the puppies, but they spring into action. Skye and May grab Coulson and move to the van while Fitz calls Ward to prep the Bus’s sickbay. Simmons phones HQ, clearing flight plans and alerting SHIELD medical. No one questions why Coulson has to be flown to the Hub instead of being rushed to the local hospital, and May is so, so grateful to be working with these idiots. 

When Barton melts quietly into the night, nobody says a goddamned word. 

***

It takes four hours on the operating table to get Coulson stable. Afterwards, they move him to a quarantine room and keep him under anesthesia until they figure out how to prevent him from triggering. No one is allowed to visit, and only one doctor (never Streiten) is in the room at a time to monitor him. 

May monitors him, too, from an observation a few halls over. Camera feeds are hooked up to a giant screen on the wall, while two smaller displays track his vitals. No one is allowed in here, either, but May didn’t exactly enter through the front door.

Somewhere outside this hypoallergenic circle of hell, the puppies are crowded into a tiny waiting room, clutching horrible coffees and comforting each other. That’s fine, but May’s place is here. Watching Coulson’s back.

She stands in the center of the room, watching Coulson’s chest rise and fall with every shallow breath.

She only waits a couple hours before her silence is interrupted by the sound of a ceiling panel sliding back. Barton drops noiselessly to the ground beside her. He’s still in the civvies he was wearing in the bar, and his face has regained all the worries that small town life helped to wipe off his face. “May,” he says with a nod, brushing the dust off his clothes. 

She shrugs acknowledgement and turns back to the screen. She’s not impressed. She can move around in the vents without looking like a dust bunny afterwards. 

The vigil takes on a different energy after that. Barton sits in a chair, but his body is so wired with energy he looks like he could spring any second. Every so often, he’d glance at May, but look away before she could call him out on it. 

Finally, after long, excruciating minutes, Barton finds the courage to ask what he wanted to in the first place. “He lost his memories of what happened after the attack,” he says, tone carefully casual.

May doesn’t say anything.

Barton nods. “He lost his memories, but only the ones of after the attack. Which means he still remembered me. And he didn’t, uh. He said he would always find me.” 

May snorts. Barton lifts his head in surprise, but she can’t help it. It’s too pathetic. “Agent Ward,” she tells him, not taking her eyes off the screens. When he doesn’t say anything, she rolls her eyes. “Ward is a good agent, and the best at what he does. But what he does is one-man operations, never relying on anyone else. He took to the Bus’s family-style living like a duck to a lake of molten lava. There were five other agents Coulson could have chosen for Ward’s position, and he wouldn’t have had to teach them how to trust a team. And then Akela Amador? Another of Coulson’s foundlings. Controlled against her will, too. Even with all the evidence stacked against her, the stubborn bastard was going to find a way to bring her back. And let’s not even get started on his playing Daddy Warbucks to Little Orphan Annie back there, because that implies certain things about the two of you I’m not comfortable with.” She shakes her head. “And you still think he didn’t, uh.” 

Barton crosses his arms. “This must be so funny for you,” He says, his voice hard. “And what are you supposed to be? The impartial observer to the rest of the world’s silliness? Fuck you and your bullshit condescension.” 

May outright laughs at that. “I know it because I live it, Barton. The old, damaged warrior too afraid of what’s she’s done to trust herself? Yeah, I’m sure that doesn’t ring any bells with you.” She turns, finally, and stares at Barton full on. “We’re stand-ins, Clint, and if you can’t see that, you don’t deserve your name. He wasn’t allowed to save you, so he’s been saving the next best thing.” 

Clint stares at her, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth, wets his lips. “I...I don’t…” 

“Yeah, you do.” May turns away and goes back to watching the screen.

Coulson’s chest rises and falls.

***

Barton’s dozing in the chair when it happens. It starts slow, just a small rise in Coulson’s heart rate. His respiration rate follows, and moment later an alarm sounds. Barton jerks in his chair, limbs flying everywhere as he stands. “What’s going on?” he asks, eyes darting around.

May points to the displays. Coulson’s vitals are continuing to rise steadily as Dr. Ekwensi rushes around the medical equipment. May’s tracking her movements (appearing increasingly futile) when Clint gasps. “Did you see that?” 

A moment later, May does. Coulson’s arm twitches. It would look incidental, but it happens again, fist closing and releasing. A groan sounds through the room’s speakers. 

Coulson’s waking up.

Another doctor runs in the room. Apparently a patient resisting sedation trumps their self-imposed quarantine. Coulson groans again, and his head rolls from side to side. The new doctor pushes a syringe into Coulson’s IV, but moments pass and Coulson continues to move.

May looks over, and sees Barton’s hands curled into fists at his side. She is of a similar sentiment. 

They hear another groan, but this one trails off into a word. “Please,” Coulson whispers, the word agonizing to their ears. “Please,” he repeats, thrashing now, so that the doctors have to hold him down. “Let me...” He trails off, groaning again. May refuses to close her eyes, determined to be a witness to whatever follows. “Let me… _Clint._ ” 

Barton is out the door before May can react. She runs from the room, following him down the hallways. Papers fly as doctors scramble to get out of their way, but no one tries to stop them as they sprint towards Coulson’s room. When they swing into the hospital room, Dr. Ekwensi looks up from whatever useless task she’s doing and straightens up. “Agents, you can’t be here,” she says, her voice shocked.

Barton stops in his tracks, eyes on Coulson writhing in the bed, but May pushes him forward. “Doctor?” she says giving Ekwensi the full force of her Cavalry stare. “Fuck you.” 

Coulson groans again. “Clint,” he says, and Barton is propelled to his bedside, knocking the other doctor aside. 

“Boss,” Barton says breathlessly, his fingers gripping the edge of the bed. “ _Phil._ ” 

At the sound of his name, Coulson stops his thrashing. “Clint,” he whispers again, his fist flexing.

“Phil.” Clint grabs the other man’s hand in both his own. “Phil, I’m here.”

May sees Coulson’s eyes flicker open, blinking hazily before finding Barton’s face. “Clint,” he says, and this time it’s not a moan but a statement, a promise.

Barton chokes out a sob and falls forward on the bed, head resting just to the side of Coulson’s shoulder. They whisper to each other, things that May is neither able nor willing to hear.

May watches from the back of the room between the two stupefied doctors. She looks at the medical monitor, then back to the bed, then at the monitor. She smirks. “Alright, kids, we’re leaving.” Dr. Ekwensi makes a squeak of protest, but May silences her with a look. The three of them shuffle out, and May closes the door firmly behind her. She stands guard right in front of it, crossing her arms. After what they’d probably define as an “awkward moment,” Dr. Ekwensi and her companion scurry away.

From down the hall, Streiten comes jogging up. “Let me in,” he says, coming to a heavy stop in front of her. “Agent May, I need to —” 

“No.” She glares down at him. “You fucked up.” 

Streiten deflates and runs a hand over his eyes. “I know. Believe me, Agent May, I know.” 

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t.” 

Streiten blinks. “I beg your pardon?” 

May stares at him. “When Coulson woke up this time, he asked for Barton. Did you even consider letting Coulson see him?”

“Agent Coulson wanted to _die_ , we couldn’t—” 

“There’s a difference, Dr. Streiten, between taking away a reason to die and giving him a reason to live.” 

“But the Tesseract energy—” 

“Woke Coulson up from a medically induced coma. It would appear he has a different greatest wish now.” 

Streiten frowns. “But _how?_ ”

May just stares at him, unimpressed. He sighs heavily, and she turns away. She’s done explaining the obvious to idiots.

***

It’s six months later, and May is enjoying the quiet peace of the cockpit at night. At least, she had been, but now the door is swinging open silently and Barton barges in, dressed in his stupid sleeveless field suit. “Hey, May,” he says, “you’ve been at this for a while now. Why don’t you take a break, let me fly the Bus for a bit?”

“I’m fine, Barton.” 

“Come _on,_ ” he groans, flopping into the co-pilot’s chair. “I’m dying over here. I’ve got to earn my keep somehow.” 

She raises an eyebrow.

“I do not trade sexual favors for a plane ride!” He pauses. “I give those away for free.” May laughs, and Barton smiles triumphantly. “Come on, out out out out,” he says, standing up and shooing her out of the seat. 

She stands and watches as he lowers himself into the pilot’s seat, sighing happily. “Stop hovering,” he says, testing the controls. “Go get yourself laid by your mystery toy.” 

Smirking, May turns to leave.

“You’re supposed to rise to the bait, you know!” he calls after her. She shuts the door behind her.

Her plan is to head straight for her bunk, but laughter from the lounge draws her to the back of the plane. She lurks in the shadows, unseen. FitzSimmons, Ward, and Skye are all awake and currently throwing jelly beans into each other's mouths.

May watches them giggle, a fond pressure on her chest. She can't really call them puppies anymore. Each and every one of them has proven themselves to be resourceful, levelheaded, and brave. It's been an honor, serving with them. 

And it means that her mission is over. Between the four of them and Barton in the cockpit, Coulson doesn’t need her anymore. He won't ever be alone again. The Cavalry can finally retire from the field, turn in her gun to Coulson and move back to the Hub. She'll have her old routine back, in her paper-covered cubicle, nothing to disturb her but the sound of staplers, nothing more exciting than a misfiled B-70, just the same easy work, day in and day out—

Skye misses a throw and pelts Ward right in the eye. "Ow, owowowowow," he cries, slapping a hand over the injury. The others gasp and rush around him.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

"Let me see it—"

"No, don't touch me—"

"Maybe if we—"

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow!" 

May shakes her head and disappears silently back to her quarters. Without her, this Bus would crash into the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate my return to reliable and cheap internet, I got a [Tumblr!](http://linguisticjubilee.tumblr.com) You should not feel obligated to follow me, but I thought it might be slightly less creepy to actually get one than stalk you all anonymously like I have been.


End file.
